


Cherry-Red

by yellow_crayon



Category: Better Call Saul (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Lalo is a flirt, M/M, Nacho is SO DONE, Nacho rescues the cook and gardener, Sexual Tension, They go to the Twins' place
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:14:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23865100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yellow_crayon/pseuds/yellow_crayon
Summary: “It’s not my first assassination attempt,” Lalo went on, “I know the drill.”“How many have you been through?” Nacho asked, not quite able to keep the incredulity out of his voice.“Twelve, thirteen if you count the botched one where they mistook me for Tuco,” Lalo murmured, rubbing at his mustache, “I mean, come on. I’m clearly way better-looking than him.”(Canon Divergence If Nacho went back)
Relationships: Eduardo "Lalo" Salamanca/Ignacio "Nacho" Varga
Comments: 30
Kudos: 105





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I loved the 5th season of BCS so much. The pace definitely picked up. Wanted to write these two doing dirty things to each other, but somehow ended up with 2.8k of dialogue? Something is wrong with me. 
> 
> Basically what I imagine is, Nacho decides to go back for the old folks after letting the assassins in. They go out the back door together and he kills the hitmen's driver and nearly runs Lalo over as he is getting out of the compound. Lalo directs Nacho to drive to the twins' home and it picks up from there. Nacho doesn't know Lalo told the hitman to say the job had been done. 
> 
> Be warned this is not my best piece of writing. I don't remember much of seasons 1-4. Didn't want to botch up by using Spanish words or Google Translate in the dialogue...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really like the idea of Lalo letting Nacho lead in bed, but still topping. 
> 
> That was what I wanted to write instead of this... *Sigh* (It might still happen if I have the motivation... but Literally no one else I know is into this ship. So lonely lol. Come talk to me...) 
> 
> I strangely want to see more Saul and Lalo interactions...

“How long are you going to stand there?”

Nacho met Lalo’s gaze through the mirror. It was still partially covered with condensation from Lalo's recent shower, so he couldn’t quite read the expression on the man’s face. But then, Nacho would have been a fool to think he could ever truly understand what was going on behind those dark eyes.

“What do you want?” Lalo asked, his tone cursory as he spread something into his palms and patted it over his face. It smelled faintly of coconut from where Nacho stood. He had a feeling this was either Lalo’s exclusive bathroom in the twin’s hacienda or some guest space for chicks, because Nacho had a hard time associating the two murderous psychopaths downstairs with fancy moisturizers.

“Marco sent me up to check on you,” He replied, lifting the first-aid pack in his left hand. Actually, he had volunteered.

Lalo smoothed his damp hair back with a casual hand and didn’t reply. The thick white towel he’d wrapped around his waist had a spot of red on one side.

“You’re still bleeding,” Nacho pointed out.

“That I am, Ignacio,” Lalo murmured, still fussing with his hair, “I expect I will be for a while.”

Nacho didn’t know how to respond to that. He wasn’t sure what he was even doing here, caged inside a compound with even more guns and higher walls than Lalo’s home, and in the presence of not only one but three Salamancas.

And yet, in that brief moment with the adrenaline pounding in his veins, Nacho had relished it. He had made the decision himself to go back for Lalo’s staff. Not Gus, not Lalo or any Salamancas. But now that he’d calmed down enough to assess the situation, Nacho realized how stupid it had been. For that one taste of autonomy and control, he’d essentially sentenced his father to death.

“Yolanda?”

“Resting downstairs,” Nacho answered dully.

“I should check in on her just to be sure,” Lalo said, turning to leave. Nacho took a small step to the right and blocked the exit. Lalo’s expression hardened imperceptibly.

“Ignacio, I don’t have the energy or patience to play games with you right now.”

“You’re bleeding,” Nacho repeated in a monotone. He didn’t particularly care about Lalo’s injury, but wasting time upstairs with him was leagues better than fidgeting downstairs with the twin terrors while they drilled holes into the side of his face with their dead-eyed stares.

At least the Devil was charming.

“Stubborn,” Lalo swiped a hand over his face and exhaled. He leaned back against the marble sink and folded his arms over his naked chest. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

* * *

“Ay, gentle!” Lalo yelped when Nacho dumped hydrogen peroxide over the oozing gash in his left thigh. The solution hissed and bubbled angrily upon contact, pink foam running down the side of Lalo’s leg. The bullet had torn cleanly through so there was nothing to remove. He swatted irritably at Nacho’s head, “I’m not dead yet, Ignacio. That hurt, man.”

“You want me to go get Marco or Leonel instead?” Nacho asked cooly, glancing up. Lalo bit his lower lip and grimaced. He snorted at the other man’s pinched expression. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

It was a strange feeling, being this bold and talking back to Lalo. They weren’t close and they sure as hell weren’t equals, but after two days in the man’s home, meeting the people that had watched Lalo grow up and hearing the stories of his mischief back in the day, Nacho wasn’t sure what he thought of the man anymore. He was a Salamanca, but he wasn’t _like_ any of the other Salamancas. If this was a monster, it sure knew how to pretend to be human.

Lalo tapped the back of his head with a knuckle and said sarcastically, “Earth to Nachito. You gonna stare at my leg until it heals under the power of your loving gaze?”

Nacho retaliated with more hydrogen peroxide. He was essentially a dead man walking at this point. Why not have a little fun torturing this sociopathic asshole before the inevitable? Lalo cursed in Spanish and tugged on his ear, but the gesture was more brotherly than angry.

“You did good yesterday,” He said after a pause.

Nacho blinked, “What?”

“You got Yolanda and Cecilio out of there.”

He frowned up at the man, “You’re not mad I didn’t go help you first?”

Lalo wiped a fake tear from one eye and let out an exaggerated sniff. “I’m devastated, Ignacio. But I’ll get over it eventually.”

Nacho rolled his eyes and grabbed the roll of clean gauze from Marco’s emergency kit.

“It’s not my first assassination attempt,” Lalo went on, “I know the drill.”

“How many have you been through?” He asked, not quite able to keep the incredulity out of his voice.

“Twelve, thirteen if you count the botched one where they mistook me for Tuco,” Lalo murmured, rubbing at his mustache, “I mean, come on. I’m clearly way better-looking than him.”

 _“Jesus,”_ Nacho muttered under his breath as he tucked the end of the bandage in and got to his feet. His body ached from the lack of sleep and the six hours it took for them to get to Marco and Leonel’s place.

Lalo lifted a dark eyebrow. “What, you don’t agree?”

“And the rest of your people, did they know the drill?” Nacho asked quietly. He was testing Lalo’s patience, he knew. But the fear and nerves over the past few months were curiously absent. He felt numb. Nothing mattered anymore. Lalo’s jaw clenched slightly, humor fading from his eyes. They reminded Nacho of buttons, cheap black plastic ones he’d sometimes find lying abandoned on the sidewalk as a child, artificial and lifeless.

“They knew what they were getting into,” He said with a shrug, “they had a choice, Ignacio. That's more than I ever had.”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

 _“What do I mean,”_ Lalo laughed and pushed his way past Nacho, “I’m a Salamanca, man. You think I got to pick and choose what I wanted to do with my life, hmm?” He dropped the towel around his hips and flung it to the side. Nacho managed to avert his gaze in time. “People like you get a choice in life, Nachito, so don’t go blaming the world when your decisions lead to some place unpleasant.” Nacho heard the creak of a closet opening. “When I was six, Tío Hector shot a man in front of me. Couldn’t sleep or stomach food for an entire week after. Kept finding odd bits of bone and flesh in my hair and clothes. You get used to it eventually. I mean, what else can ya do, huh?”

Nacho glanced up. Lalo had pulled on a loose pair of linen slacks. There was a puckered mark on his left shoulder, likely from an old bullet wound. A pale crescent slash stretched across his back and a smattering of old scars dotted his torso. Lalo snagged a white shirt off a hanger and shrugged it on under Nacho’s gaze. “It’s just how things are done around here.”

“In this family, you either eat or be eaten,” He said cheerily, clapping Nacho on the shoulder on his way out, “Lighten up, Ignacio. I happen to be excellent at the former.”

* * *

He stood on the second floor balcony overlooking the three men below. Nacho could not hear Lalo’s voice over the buzz of crickets, but he found himself strangely fine with not knowing. He had dropped his flip phone in all the chaos last night, so there was no way to communicate with Gus or the outside world. It was oddly peaceful, this limbo in Hell.

Leonel had lit the fire pit at Lalo’s insistence, and Nacho watched as the flickering light danced off of the streaks of silver in his hair. Lalo had left it to dry earlier without putting any product in. Now it curled freely over his forehead and behind his ears. Nacho found his gaze tracking Lalo’s hands. The man was always so animated when he spoke. Lalo swept the wayward curls out of his face and Nacho wondered fleetingly whether it would feel as soft as it looked twisted between his fingers.

Lalo glanced up and spotted him leaning on the banister. The twins swerved eerily as one to follow the older Salmanca’s gaze. He lifted a cold beer from the ice bucket next to Marco and beckoned to Nacho invitingly.

 _Half-way to becoming a Salamanca,_ Lalo had said.

He was wrong about that. Lalo might not have had a choice in life, but Salamancas were the ones giving orders. In their eyes, Nacho was nothing but a trained animal — fit to follow orders, not give them. It probably didn’t even occur to Lalo how degrading that gesture was. Nacho contemplated just ignoring him. After all, he’d fucked up countless times already and Lalo had yet to put a bullet in his head. What was one more act of insolence?

 _“Nachito,”_ Lalo sang in that obnoxious, child-like voice. _“I see you…”_

He acted as if he hadn’t just killed off six trained assassins and watched most of his “people” die in front of him. Nacho rubbed a hand over his jaw and obediently went downstairs.

* * *

They were having a very one-sided discussion about the situation with Gustavo Fring when he reluctantly took a seat on Lalo’s right. The flames were so bright they hurt Nacho’s eyes. It felt like last night all over again.

_3 AM. Southern Gate._

The sudden urge to vomit swept over him. Nacho hastily lifted the beer to his lips and gulped down half its contents. Marco glanced at him but said nothing.

“You’re not taking this as seriously as you should be,” He blurted out before he could stop himself.

“Oh yeah? And what do _you_ know about the Chicken Man’s operations?” Lalo paused before asking. His tone was curious, not condescending. Now Leonel was staring as well. Fuck.

“Fring's ambitious. And smart,” Nacho muttered vaguely down at the half-empty beer bottle in his fingers. “Men like him are good at sniffing out weakness and hitting you where it hurts.”

“Are you speaking from experience?” He could feel Lalo’s eyes on him.

“I’ve been north of the border longer than you have,” Nacho said, refusing to meet his gaze. “He’s planning something big, but he’s patient.”

“That’s what Hector thinks, too,” Lalo tapped a finger against his lip. “ _Man, this shit._ Tío’s health really chose the wrong time to take a nose-dive, huh boys?” He nudged Marco’s ankle with the tip of his leather loafer, “And here I was, thinking I’d be able to leave things up north with Ignacio and get back to my old life now that I’m finally home.”

He sounded almost wistful.

“What do you usually do?” Nacho asked without thinking. Come to think of it, he knew next to nothing about Lalo.

“Oh, you know,” Lalo gestured vaguely with one hand, “I clean up messes and go wherever the cartel needs me.” He grinned and flung the empty beer bottle over his shoulder into the dark grass with a cheeky wink, “I'm a travelin' man, Nachito.”

 _“You’re going to pick that up,”_ Leonel said, glowering at his cousin. Lalo’s expression shifted into a pout, “ _so many rules, Leo._ You’re embarrassing me in front of Tuco’s friend. Look boys, I’ll be out of your non-existent hair in a few days, ok? And who knows, you might even miss me then, eh?”

Nacho staggered to his feet. The tight frustration that had built in his chest since meeting Lalo Salamanca was really threatening to consume him. He couldn’t sit here anymore, witnessing this mockery of family bonding between the Salamancas while his father could already be dead. Leonel reacted on instinct at his sudden movement, reaching for his left side where Nacho was sure a firearm of some sort was hidden.

“Hey, I got this,” Lalo put out a placating hand and stood to follow him, “Ignacio, _what now?_ Your panties have been twisted in a bunch ever since we got here.”

He slipped inside the house after Nacho on silent feet. Nacho couldn’t think straight. Goddamn Mexico and the heat. And Lalo, charming to the point of annoying, who just refused to shut up and die already.

 _“Ignacio Varga,”_ The man said, the usual airy cheer gone from his voice. It was jarring how Lalo flipped between the two personas he put on, the fun charismatic life-of-the-party guy and ruthless cartel man.

“You’re not invincible, OK?” He whirled around. “How are you still acting this way after what happened last night?”

“You want me to cry and sulk? I’ll deal with Fring when the time is right,” Lalo snorted and folded his arms over his chest. The thin white shirt strained across his pecs. Nacho glanced away from the distracting sight. “Come on, man. We’re in the dying business. Hell, those two bald knuckleheads outside are probably planning to murder me right now for littering on their precious lawn. Is that why you’ve been so tense? And here I thought you weren’t happy about the promotion.”

 _“I’m not,”_ He admitted in a low whisper. Nacho curled in on himself over the cold smooth granite counter. It felt good on his overheated skin. “Fring sent trained assassins to kill you, what do you think he’s going to do once I head back north?”

“You’re worried about your papá?” Lalo asked, tone softening, “relax. If you want, I could send the boys over to Señor Varga’s shop for a bit until the heat dies down.” But his next words sent icy dread coursing through his veins, “Hey, I’ve been thinking things over. Want to know a few funny coincidences I came across?”

Nacho swallowed and screwed his eyes shut. Within the safe confines of darkness, he could pretend—

"Marco, bless that sweet boy of few words, mentioned a certain bald gringo just now. Old grump of a thing that got into the fistfight that landed Tuco in prison. You were there,” Lalo sauntered over, close enough for Nacho to feel the heat of him. “That was Michael, wasn’t it? Fring's righthand man. And last night, the poor man I nearly blinded with that convenient pot of oil, you know what he said to me? Said there was a middle man, Ignacio. I wonder who he was talking about.”

“What are you saying?” Nacho clenched his teeth. Cool fingers touched the side of his sweaty face. Lalo forced his chin up so that their eyes could meet.

“Did you know?”

“Know what?”

“About Fring’s men.”

“Why would I still be here with you if I did?” Nacho asked flatly. Lalo’s thumb traced his thundering pulse.

“Could be just a part of his elaborate plan,” He murmured, eyes narrowing. Lalo didn't look scared. Excited, maybe. Like a large cat purring at the prospect of toying with an injured mouse. Only, Nacho was sick of being the mouse.

“I don’t want you dead,” He said coldly. It was the truth. Nacho never had a choice in the matter. This particular Salamanca was just too much of a threat to Fring’s operations.

_“What do you care whether I live or die?”_

Lalo had asked McGill a similar question about Domingo out in the desert with that same detached, almost bored tone.

“I work for you,” He pointed out, frustration seeping into his voice, “I’d like for you to stay alive if you don’t mind.”

“Work _with_ , Ignacio,” Lalo corrected, mouth reluctantly curling in amusement, “and nice try parroting the lawyer’s words back to me, but what’s the real reason? And don’t try to lie. I might not be Tuco, but I can spot a bullshitter a mile away.”

They were standing too close. Nacho’s head ached. He was so tired of Lalo's mind games. If only there was a way to shut him up and wipe that smug look off his face—

Lalo let out a muffled yelp when he surged forward and smashed their faces together. It was all teeth and aggression on Nacho’s end. Lalo’s mouth was surprisingly soft beneath the prickle of his mustache. Salt and iron spilled across his tongue as he caught Lalo’s lower lip between his teeth. The large, hot palm against his sternum pressed down hard, so Nacho let the momentum break their contact. Lalo stumbled back a few steps, his mouth stained cherry-red with blood.

 _“Well, that was unexpected,”_ He muttered after a pause. He didn’t look mad, just _finally_ caught off guard. Nacho felt a sick sense of satisfaction.

“Still think I’m on Fring’s side?”

Before Lalo could reply, they both jumped at the sound of a loud knock on the glass patio door. Nacho turned to find Leonel’s menacing shadow looming in the doorway, one hand lifted to repeat the action. He pointed silently to the grass.

 _“Oh for fuck’s sake,”_ Lalo snapped and stormed out, leaving Nacho standing there alone. His mouth burned, but it was a good kind of pain. He flexed the fingers of his right hand.

Lalo’s hair was softer than he imagined.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Since you’re already in there, grab me a shirt,” He commanded, flopping back onto the bed and closing his eyes. 
> 
> “Which one?” 
> 
> “Surprise me, Ignacio. I’m putting you in charge of dressing me today.” 
> 
> Nacho grabbed the pink one on the far left purely out of spite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A dab of fluff. I couldn't help it. 
> 
> Still no sex. WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME TODAY?

The men Marco and Leonel employed were strikingly different from the laid-back, smiling folks Nacho had been introduced to at Lalo’s hacienda. In a twisted way, he almost missed them, but it was no good dwelling on past mistakes and the dead.

No, he had a bigger problem — Nacho had run out of fresh clothes.

His favorite shirt, the one that had only been slightly stained with Lalo’s blood, had disappeared. Most likely incinerated by the twins’ staff after he’d left it on the bathroom floor last night. That was a stupid, careless mistake on his part because now—

He stared at the row of chrome-colored silk shirts in the guest bedroom closet. There was even a baby pink one, not that he could in his wildest imagination conjure up in his mind the terrifying image of either Salamanca twin wearing pink. Great, now he was going to have nightmares about them hunting him down in matching shiny pink suits.

Nacho would honestly rather jump from a four-story building than be caught dead wearing any of those hideous shirts. But he would probably face a worse fate if he walked around naked from the waist up in the twins’ hacienda. Lalo would probably be the only one amused by that.

Lalo.

Nacho had caught a glimpse of the sensible shades in the man’s closet yesterday. Sure there was the occasional flower print and gold thread, but at least his fashion sense didn’t instantly blind Nacho on sight.

What did he have to lose at this point? He’d nearly chewed the man’s face off last night and he was still alive and kicking. Besides, Lalo was probably already up and annoying the hell out of Leonel or Marco (or god-forbid, both) downstairs. Maybe one of them would finally snap and shoot him or something. A man could dream.

Nacho’s stomach rumbled. It was disappointingly quiet outside.

Mind made, he slipped out of his room and down the hall to where Lalo temporarily resided.

Soft morning sunlight streamed into the dim bedroom. He had left his balcony doors open, and the curtains fluttered gently in the summer breeze. Nacho could make out the tanned shoulder of a figure lying among the sheets, half buried in a mountain of goose-feather pillows. He was a little surprised that Lalo was still sleeping, but Nacho supposed that the last few days had probably taken a toll on the man and the measly hours of sleep he normally got just wouldn’t cut it.

He entered the room on silent feet, hoping vehemently that Lalo wasn’t one to sleep in the nude. Nacho eased the sliding door to Lalo’s massive walk-in closet open and hissed under his breath at the low creak. Luckily, the man on the bed gave no visible reaction.

Lalo’s shirts were thankfully mostly linen ones with modest designs. He reached for one of the solid maroon ones and turned to escape—

“You really like the color red, huh?” A sleepy voice drawled from the nest of comforters. Nacho screwed his eyes shut.

_Shit._

“Morning, Ignacio,” Lalo yawned. Nacho was still frozen to the spot, at a loss for what to do or say.

“You know, when someone catches you sneaking into their room to steal their clothes, the least you could do is greet them back,” He said, peering at Nacho’s half-naked body. Nacho couldn’t help but notice there was a bruise forming nicely under Lalo’s lower lip.

“Hi,” He said weakly. Lalo rolled his eyes and muttered something under his breath. He rubbed a hand over his face and muffled another cat-like yawn.

“Since you’re already in there, grab me a shirt,” Lalo commanded, flopping back onto the bed and closing his eyes.

“Which one?”

“Surprise me, Ignacio. I’m putting you in charge of dressing me today.”

Nacho grabbed the pink one on the far left purely out of spite.

“And pants, too.”

Ah, so he did sleep naked.

Not that it was something Nacho ever wanted to find out.

 _Maybe Gustavo Fring would find that piece of information helpful in the future,_ he thought sarcastically and slammed the closet door shut.

* * *

The twins were out on an errand, Nacho found out when he reluctantly wandered downstairs. Yolanda was working in the large open kitchen where he’d mauled Lalo last night, two cast-iron pans sizzling on the stove. Nacho’s stomach clenched at the sight of them.

 _“Breakfast?”_ She asked in Spanish when she spotted him lingering in the doorway. Lalo breezed past him and pressed a kiss to her cheek before taking over one of the pans.

“Ignacio, grab some plates,” He called over his shoulder. Nacho stared at his broad back, wondering what the hell was going on inside Lalo’s mind. From that conversation they had last night, surely he’d caught onto their plot to kill him. And what of the messy kiss Nacho had foolishly initiated as a clumsy distraction? Couldn’t he see past Nacho’s flimsy attempts to divert his attention? Head reeling, he staggered over to one of the cabinets and retrieved three plates.

“Yolanda already ate,” Lalo said, grabbing two out of Nacho’s hands. There was nothing about his expression or body language that screamed suspicion.

They were talking about an argument the twins’ gardener and Cecilio had gotten into that morning. Something about the size of cucumbers and fertilizer brand. Nacho tuned it out as he was handed plated food to be taken to the breakfast bar.

“Anything you need to get picked up today? I’ll get one of Marco's boys to grab Cecilio’s heart medication later,” Lalo was saying as he stood next to the old woman.

 _“My sweet, thoughtful little boy,”_ Yolanda lifted a hand and pinched his cheek affectionately. The corners of Lalo’s eyes crinkled as he grinned back, his expression so open and adoring. There was nothing _little_ about him. Lalo towered over her. Hell, he towered a little over Nacho, too, if the loose shirt was any indication.

With nothing else to do, Nacho busied himself with filling two clean mugs with fresh coffee from the pot.

“Two sugars for mine, Nachito,” Lalo said, throwing him a wink as he took a seat on one of the bar stools with a wince of discomfort. Of course he had a sweet tooth. Nacho, on the other hand, liked his coffee black.

By the time he shuffled over with the coffee, Lalo had nearly finished his breakfast. Like with everything else he did, Lalo ate fast. Nacho thanked Yolanda for the food and sat down. She wandered back to them once she finished cleaning the pans. Lalo was playing with the last of his eggs, twirling his fork through the soft runny yolk and making a messy Picasso on his plate.

 _“Be a good boy like Leonel and Marco, Eduardo. Don’t play with your food,”_ The old woman scolded gently.

Nacho nearly choked on his tongue. Why did people keep saying that? They clearly weren’t. If the bar was that low in the Salamanca household, then Lalo would’ve probably been dubbed “Outstanding Boy” by comparison.

As if reading Nacho's mind, Yolanda reached into her shirt and pulled out something on a silver chain. She showed him the faded black-and-white picture in the locket. It was a young child, large dark eyes full of mischief and lips curled into a familiar grin. He realized with a uneasy jolt that it was a picture of Lalo. Nacho would hazard a guess around ten years old. His cheeks were still round with baby fat. He met Yolanda’s gaze.

 _“Already so handsome, no?”_ She said, smiling lovingly at the man seated to his left. Nacho bit his lip. He didn’t really know how to reply. It was clear to him that she loved Lalo like a son and that he somehow returned the sentiment. He wondered if she’d been the one to coax his appetite back after Hector shot the man in front of Lalo all those years ago. The split-second of overwhelming relief Nacho had seen on his face when Lalo had spotted them in the black SUV had been genuine.

But surely she knew about all the horrible things Lalo had done? How could you love someone who was so cavalier about committing such heinous acts on a nearly daily basis? Or perhaps she wasn’t privy to that information.

“She asked you a question, Ignacio,” Lalo said lazily, his chin propped in one hand. The other hand tapped rhythmically on the rim of the white coffee cup Nacho had placed in front of him. Now that Nacho had spent so much time with Lalo, he noticed these annoying little quirks. The older Salamanca couldn’t seem to stay still or silent for longer than two seconds. He would always be fidgeting with his hands, tugging on a loose thread in his jeans, or humming annoyingly cheerful tunes under his breath. And don’t get Nacho started on the snacking. Lalo must have a crazy fast metabolism to stay fit the way he was with all the constant little snack breaks he took on top of his normal three meals a day.

Nacho pinched the bridge of his nose in despair.

“What, you don’t think eleven-year-old Eduardo was a good-looking boy?” Lalo persisted, lifting the coffee to his lips. Nacho cocked his head to the side and met his smiling gaze. Lalo’s eyes were sparkling with amusement as he wiggled his eyebrows at Nacho over the brim of his mug.

“I wouldn’t know. I’m not into prepubescent children,” Nacho answered flatly. Lalo snorted so hard he spilled his drink. He watched as the man dissolved into laughing coughs and felt the strange urge to smile. _What the hell was wrong with him?_ There was nothing endearing about that exchange. It was just a murderous sociopath fishing for compliments. Pure narcissism, nothing more.

 _“Ay boys, no horseplay in the kitchen,”_ Yolanda chided them both as she rushed over to mop up the spilled drops. Lalo apologized profusely between coughs and took the paper towel from her wrinkled hands. Nacho had to look away when he pressed an apologetic kiss to her knuckles.

“So, what are we going to do today?” He asked once Lalo finished battling Yolanda for dish-washing privileges and secured a narrow victory. Lalo handed him a wet plate to dry and shrugged.

“Feel free to explore, Ignacio. I have some calls to make.”

Nacho frowned. "You don't want me to help with anything?" 

"Nah, you go relax," Lalo said lightly. He was still smiling but Nacho wasn't sure if it reached his eyes. He didn't want to check. 

"Are you sure?" 

"Yes, Ignacio," He groaned, flicking Nacho with a bit of cold water from the wet sink, "you know you've earned it."

 _You've earned it._ What did Lalo really mean by that?

Nacho swallowed. 

"Ok." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might periodically add more if the inspiration strikes or if people like this? I feel like I might be veering off to OOC territories haha. 
> 
> Also, that tumblr gif set of Lalo introducing Nacho "Not Yet Salamanca" to Eladio is hilarious. Eladio's raised eyebrows and amazed yet dubious expression. That little proud eager nod Lalo gave at the end. Lmao, I laughed so hard. Fantastic job to the amazing human being who made it :)))


End file.
